The Times Seem to be Changing

I’m embarrassed. Almost a full month ago, I said my plan was to write this blog more often, even if it meant writing shorter blog-entries.

I haven’t.

I guess I should not have said anything.

The problem is that I’ve been feeling terrible for the past few weeks. It’s all been due to the cancer and the chemo. My weight fell down to about 115 pounds and I’ve been exhausted all day, every day. I’ve had no appetite and some transient pain. As a consequence, I’ve had no real desire to write. Anything.

My typical day started about 5:20 when I woke, had coffee, took pills, shaved and dressed then went to a 7 a.m. A.A. meeting that ends at 8. Typically, I drove home (about a mile) and almost immediately hopped into bed so I could fall asleep. Most of the days I’ve been spending in bed, sleeping or reading. I usually got up at about 5 p.m., ate something for dinner, then watched T.V. with Lynne until about 8:30 when I went to bed.

The last two days have been different. I’ve had no chemo in about three weeks. Instead, I started taking chemo pills yesterday. I’ve felt pretty good. For two days. Yesterday, I was able to have breakfast with Mark Ford, a true friend. The eggs were good but Mark looked sad every time he looked at me. Still, the most recent days have been the best I’ve had in months. God willing, I may be able to start writing again.

I hope so.

Mom and Me

My mother is in rehab now. She had surgery about a week ago and is already up, walking (with help), and dealing with her granddaughter’s death about as well as can be expected.

I call her on the phone a couple of times a day. I wish I could get up there, but I’m too sick from the chemo. Yesterday, when I called and asked for mom, a nurse told me she was in the beauty parlor. For reasons that have nothing at all to do with beauty, that was the best news I’d had in while.

# # #

Not surprisingly, I’ve been getting some psychiatric and psychological help for about a year now. It was recommended by one of my chemotherapy nurses after I spent a long chemo session talking about my feelings.

The psychiatrist, whom I really like and admire, doesn’t have me stretch out on a couch or anything like that. We talk for a bit and he makes comments, but he’s really more involved in prescribing drugs than in anything like psychotherapy, and that’s okay with me.

I was in therapy once, for one session. The doctor made a big deal out of telling me I could tell him anything at all and it wouldn’t bother him, and that sounded good to me. So I told him something. I don’t remember what it was (this was about 40 years ago) but it must have been pretty bad because when I looked at the shrink his face was twisted with disgust.

So much for that.

This may come as a surprise to most who know me, but I’m not crazy, or not really crazy. I don’t want to take my own life or harm anybody else, I don’t hear voices, and I have no ideas at all that I am Napoleon or Captain Hook or Al Capone.

I guess that means I don’t really need to see a shrink. What I do need is help dealing with the things are happening in my life, to me and – even more – to people I love. I am sad and sometimes scared. I’m angry. I can’t sleep without aid. I have no energy to speak of. My memory is full of troublesome holes. But I’m not crazy.

That’s where Linda comes in. I call her my therapist though the VA gives her some other title.
She and I have a good relationship. I see her at least twice a month and I am able to tell her the truth without worrying about her judgments. We like each other. She’s helped me accept the truth and know that my feelings are to be expected and are justified.

I saw her last week and when I told her about my mother’s hospitalization and my niece’s suicide she didn’t hide her reaction or retain her professional detachment. She blurted a short sentence that you might expect to hear from a carpenter after he hammers his thumb.

I started to weep, something I’ve been doing a lot of in the last few days. She simply let me cry. And that was okay. I told her what I was feeling and she nodded and she said, "Of course you’re sad and frightened and angry. You should be."

She also told me I needed to focus more on myself. I know the truth of that. I have to take care of myself.

I’m not trying to sound like a candidate for sainthood. But she’s right. I haven’t been thinking about myself…at least not as much as I usually do. "Be nice to yourself," Linda said.

To be honest, right now there aren’t many ways I can be nice to myself. I’ve no appetite to speak of. I don't drink anymore. I can’t go sailing or walking. My libido has left town.

But I can read.

So I went online and ordered two of Garrison Keillor’s books – the only ones I didn’t already have in the stack by my bed.

The books arrived yesterday and I’ve already devoured one. It was wonderful to spend time in Lake Woebegon instead of in my own head.

MJ and DI

My mother got out of the hospital last Friday (June 26), went home and broke her hip on Saturday. She somehow survived Sunday but was back in the hospital on Monday. She had surgery today (July 1) and somehow expects to be walking within a week.

At least that’s the news I got from my mother and my brother up in Clearwater. I never heard of anything like that, but, hey, it sounds good to me.

I had chemo this morning. It wasn’t bad but early in the drive home my tight lower lip went completely numb. It only took an instant for the lip to go from being normal to tingling, as if I’d been given a big pain-killer shot in a dentist’s office.

I know I should have turned back to the hospital, but I didn’t. I just wanted to go home.

I know it wasn’t the right thing to do. It worked out though. Not long after I walked into the apartment, the lip felt fine.

So far, so good. Mom seems to be okay and I’m here.

Meanwhile, I wish everybody would stop talking about Michael Jackson, his money, his DNA, his drug habit, and everything else.

I feel bad for Farrah Fawcett Major’s loved ones and followers. Thanks to The King of Pop, her passing has hardly been noticed.

The same thing happened to Mother Theresa (now Blessed Theresa of Calcutta) after her death in 1997. Diana, the Princess of Wales, died just a few days earlier and news of her passing in a brutal auto accident in Paris put the Roman Catholic nun at the back of most newspapers.

I don't know why, but this stuff bothers me. In a way, though, I enjoy it. It takes my mind off me and my mom for a bit and gives me something new to complain about.

Mom

My phone rang yesterday afternoon. It was my brother, Pat, the lawyer in Clearwater. He called with the news that my mother was in the hospital. I wasn't really surprised. You see, my ninety-two year old mom has recently been a bit confused when she and I spoke on the phone. For the last few weeks, she seemed always to be searching for words, sometimes saying things that didn’t make sense.

I’d already talked to Pat about her problem. He sees her almost every day. He had noticed the same things but knew there was no way we could force her to go to a doctor, at least not yet. He said he would watch her carefully, but for now he would let it pass. I agreed.

We were wrong.

My mom, Mary, telephoned Pat in mid-morning yesterday. When she spoke, nothing she said made any kind of sense at all. Oh, she was able to talk, and to say real words, but the words she said had nothing to do with anything. She might want to say mailbox and instead, she’d say ice cream bar or puppy dog.

And she was terrified.

Pat took mom to the hospital in town where the doctors quickly diagnosed her problem as something called aphasia.

Pat explained what aphasia really is, but I didn’t get it. I was too worried about my mother and wondering what the hell I should do. Later, after we hung up, I looked it up online and discovered that it is a language disturbance caused by a lesion of the brain, making an individual partially or totally impaired in her ability to speak, write, or comprehend the meaning of spoken or written words.

Mom was held overnight. I spent most of the night worrying, sure she was either going to die or end her life in a nursing home. Some time around midnight, I decided to reschedule my next chemo so Lynne and I could rush up to be with her.

This morning, I found out that aphasia often cures itself and doesn’t last a long time. In fact, my mother is already somewhat better. A few moments ago, she and I spoke on the phone and even laughed together. Some of what she said didn’t make sense but that was okay and it will probably pass. She even thinks she’ll be able to keep working the New York Times crossword each day and that’s a relief.

So I feel better today. And that’s good. You see, I’ve been having a rough go since my last chemotherapy. It’s more than two weeks now and I am just starting to feel good enough to want to write anything at all. My appetite has returned enough that I don’t have to force everything down my throat and I'm not forced to spend the entirety of each day in bed.

Of course, my mother knew I’d been having a rough time, so before we quit talking, she asked me how I was doing. I told her I felt okay. I also told her Lynne and I would be up to visit her as soon as possible.

My mother asked me if I have any more chemo scheduled and I told her I did, in just a week, and she told me not to worry about her, that she would be fine.

"Hell," she said, "just stay home and take care of your damn self for a while."

I laughed.

Now, you might think that rough language was caused by my mom’s bout of aphasia. It wasn’t.

That’s the way my mother – a bright or maybe brilliant retired English teacher/librarian – talks.

Not always, but sometimes and only with me. She once explained to me that she talks that way because she’s retired, never in a classroom or library, and she gets to cuss a bit when she feels like it.

When I heard her words, I really felt relief because I truly knew she was already recovering.

Damn, it made me feel good.

Hopes

I’m tired. It’s chemo and it’s cancer. These days, I wake up every morning when my alarm goes off at 5:30 a.m. For many years – more than a dozen – I needed no alarm. In the old days, I always woke right at 3 a.m. I made a pot of coffee and started working on the freelance work I did to pay our rent and put food on the table.

Nowadays, I’m lucky if I have enough energy to work for a couple of hours in the afternoon.

Though I’m tired, I simply can’t sleep all day every day, so I spend a lot of time looking at a big, flat-screen television that’s about eight feet from my pillows. Sometimes, I watch shows I’ve already seen a few times. Those are always some version of "Law and Order" or one of the shows about Dr. House and his crew.

Sometimes, now, I’ll watch the Cubs play ball. I’ve been a Cub’s fan for more than four decades. My Cub cheers started in 1967, when I was a student at Chicago’s Art Institute, living just two blocks from Wrigley Field.

The Cubs were slotted by just about everybody to win the National League title this year, possibly to win the World Series. Lately, they’ve been playing terribly. They’ve lost eight straight.

I have mixed feelings about the Cubs’ losing streak. Well, really about their chances this year. You see, the last time the Cubbies were in the series was 1945, the year I was born.

The last time the Cubs won the whole shooting match was 1908. Just over a century ago.

So there’s a part of me hoping the team gets on the right track this year and wins all the games it needs to win to be the champs of the world.

There’s another part of me, though.

That part has promised me, myself, that I can’t die until the Cubs win the whole shooting match.

To be frank, that part of me has felt pretty good as the Cubs lost. If they don’t win the series, maybe, just maybe, there will be something inside me that will hold my cancer off, at least for another year.

We’ll see, right?

(After I wrote this, the Cubs won two games against the Pirates. I have mixed feelings. I guess all I can do is see what happens, right?)

Food

I’ve been receiving chemotherapy for almost three years now. This means I get chemical mixes shot into an "injection port" stuck beneath my outer skin about three inches below my right clavicle every so often.

One of the side-effects of the last couple of the chemicals I received – at least in my case – has been an almost complete loss of appetite. For about six months, food I knew to be good, food I had cooked for years, suddenly tasted bad or strange or just nasty. Spaghetti…roast beef…cheeseburgers…cheese and crackers…salmon…bacon and eggs…almost everything I’d long enjoyed simply tasted like garbage.

I was given medicine to build my appetite. It didn’t work. I tried eating things I’d never liked or never tried before, hoping something would be edible. It wasn’t.

The one thing that remained wonderful to me was chocolate. So I drank chocolate nutritional drinks and chocolate milk shakes. I ate candy and cake and chocolate donuts. I believe, truly, if it hadn’t been for chocolate, I probably would have croaked already.

Still, my eating was bad enough that I lost weight. Always slim, I dropped down to about 140 pounds.

Then, about two months ago, things got worse. I wanted nothing to eat. Exhausted, I spent most of my time in bed. I had to force myself to chew food and take drinks that almost always turned me nauseous. I dropped down to lower than 125 pounds.

Suddenly, though, things started to change just a few days ago.

It’s been almost three weeks since my last chemo. I guess that improved my outlook and my appetite. Suddenly, I wanted to eat. Peanut butter and banana and marshmallow sandwiches and eggs and chili and bowls of cereal and (of course) ice cream and sundaes and energy drinks. I ate more already this morning than I usually ate in a full day. I have more strength, more desire to stay out of bed, even a desire to walk. Not only that, but I’ve gained about three pounds in the last three days.

Not bad, hunh?

Now, I’m planning on making a nice dinner for Lynne and myself to enjoy tomorrow. It will be Sunday, so that’s the right thing to do. Maybe a standing rib-roast with roasted spuds and fresh asparagus. Maybe fresh flounder I cook a special way with onion and lemon. Maybe lamb chops. I love those. Maybe duck or chicken. Who knows?

I may as well eat whatever I want tomorrow. It’s been a long, long time since I really looked forward to a meal.

Then, Monday morning, very early, I have chemotherapy again. After a three week break.

Damn. I know I’ll puke before I leave the hospital. I know I won’t want to eat. I have to thank God, though, for the last few days. I hope I can repeat them about three weeks from now.

Plagiarism

I’m between chemo treatments now, enjoying about three weeks without injections. Later this month, it’s cat-scan time, then a visit to the oncologist. Then the doc and I will decide what, if anything, we can do. I think there’s only one more chemo method we can attempt, something oral, but we’ll see.

I am alone a lot these days. Oh, Lynne and I are in the apartment but a distance apart that is much too long and arduous to be easily overcome.

Perhaps because of loneliness, I have found it a bit easier now to write every day. That makes me happy. I believe I’ve always been cheered by writing, grateful that I have had both the ability and opportunities to make my way as an author.

In an old shoe box in my closet, I have the very first thing I ever wrote. It was a little story about St. Patrick and Ireland. I guess I knew I really wanted to write books, because I’d taken two sheets of typing paper and folded them in half, then stapled them to fashion a tiny book ofeight pages, each filled with words and iterrible llustrations done in crayon.

My mom saved that creative work, giving it to me along with a bunch of old souvenirs – photos and grade cards from school and old news clippings and a dried flower from someplace long forgotten. I was, according to the date my mother had written on the first page, five years old when I’d written about St. Patrick.

I was thinking about that piece of work yesterday and suddenly, without warning, I remembered some other writing I managed to scribble out 45 years ago, or so.

What I remembered was winning the first writing contest I ever entered, a contest held when I was in the fifth grade at Our Lady of Peace, or maybe the sixth. If my memory is correct, every Catholic student in whatever grade I was in was given the chance to write 100 words or so about something Catholic and then – to win a prize – submit the writing to some priest or maybe a bishop or even a cardinal.

That judge, poor fellow, would read all the words of all the students and name two winners. One of the winners would be a girl, the other would be a boy.

I didn’t write a word until the night before the work was to be turned in. I had no idea what to write until I picked up a tiny volume written by some priest somewhere to explain different Catholic terms to little boys, like me. Flipping the little book open, I found myself looking at a page about prayer. Specifically, about how to pray.

I don’t know who the author was and have no recollection of the words. I do remember reading each sentence and then rewriting it in little boy terms. I even remember making a couple of mistakes on purpose. I remember hoping I would not get caught.

Ha!

Not only did I not get caught, I won the contest. Some girl from a school in the north side of town, won the female division.

As I recall, both writings – mine and the girl’s – were printed in the city’s Catholic newspaper or perhaps the parish bulletin. I was, I guess, supposed to feel proud. Instead, I was terrified. I just knew someone would recognize the words and shame me. I kept waiting for the telephone to ring or for a posse of monsignors to show up at the front door.

Instead, all I got was a note that I’d won a ticket to see The Song of Bernadette movie in one of the downtown movie houses. I wouldn’t be alone, of course. I’d be accompanied by the little girl who had won the female contest and by two nuns, one from my school and one from hers.

I don’t remember enjoying the movie even though we sat in the balcony. The only thing I remember about the little girl are the truths that she was terribly obese and disgustingly holy. As I recall, she sat with her hands together and her head slightly bowed from the film's opening until its ending.

I firmly remember that we couldn’t get popcorn or candy. I remember I had to sit next to a nun who prayed her rosary without a pause. I remember some other kids looking at me and the girl and the nuns and laughing. I couldn’t wait to get home.

I don’t believe I’ve ever knowingly plagiarized since those days. The reward for stealing those words was, to my mind, a simply horrible punishment.

I don’t even enjoy the memories at all.

Chow

I’ve been writing and rewriting my memoir for about a year now. Its working title is "Low Bottom Alky." That’s what I was, for a long time, before I got the help I needed – physical and spiritual – to turn my life around.

Yesterday, I was looking at the manuscript and came across a paragraph in which I talked about my mother’s poor cooking skills when I was a boy.

She really wasn’t a good cook. It wasn’t until later, though, that I realized that she was severely limited by the fact that – in our house – there just wasn’t a lot of money to spend on food. Oh, my old man made a pretty good living and my mother worked as a teacher after I got in the third grade. Still, money was made to be saved, not spent on fancy food.

I’ve often said that if I were somehow transported back in time 55 years or so to my family’s dining room when we were eating dinner, I would know what day of the week it was as soon as I saw what was being served.

Roast beef on Sunday. Left-overs on Monday. Liver on Tuesday. Meat balls and tomato gravy with potatoes on Wednesday. Chicken (legs and wings) on Thursday. Fish sticks and macaroni and cheese on Friday. Pork chops or steak (one sirloin for the family) on Saturday.

Cooking meals like those didn’t really give my mother much opportunity to show her expertise. In fact, while I saw she wasn’t a good cook, she did (and still does) make a standing rib-roast worth killing for.

Anyway, food was never real important to me when I was growing up.

Over the years, though, I became a pretty good cook. I make a cheeseburger better than any found in any restaurant and several fish recipes I’m proud to serve guests. I bake bread, sometimes, can make an outstanding strawberry pie, and know how to make a decent standing rib and passable Yorkshire Pudding.

Now, though, I find myself not enjoying food at all. Living alone – with Lynne in the hospital – I have little impetus to cook or even to eat. I walk in the grocery store and look at meat and vegetables and fresh bread and it all looks boring. Of course, the chemotherapy hasn’t done a great deal to improve my appetite.

Suddenly, I’m losing weight. I’ve lost about 12 pounds in the last three weeks. That’s not a good sign for anybody other than a desperate dieter. It’s certainly not good for a cancer patient.

The nurse who was giving me my chemotherapy shook her head when she saw my weight a few days ago. She told me I had to eat more. She said it made no real difference what I ate because I needed to take in calories. She talked about steak, chicken, energy drinks made with ice cream. Cake and cookies. Donuts. Whatever.

Finally, she asked the oncologist to prescribe a new medicine she said might help me regain my appetite. As she spoke, I made believe I believed her. I didn’t really, because most of the drugs I’m taking seem not to live up to their reputations.

Anyway, I’ve been taking the new drug for about three days. And guess what? I’m eating. Not a lot. That probably won’t happen. But I’m eating a couple of decent meals a day, and some sweets. I’ll probably either gain some weight back or at least stop losing.

After it started working, I did some quick research on line. The medicine is something called megestrol acetate. It’s a hormone typically prescribed to women suffering from breast or uterine cancer and to dogs (bitches) to treat false pregnancy.

I’m tempted to ask the nurse if I’m getting the right medicine but figure I’ll keep quiet. What the hell, if wearing a dress made me feel better, I would. So I sure am not going to worry about taking medicine typically given to women or even to bitches.

Good Day

It’s amazing. Some days are bad. Very bad. And then, just when I start to think all my days are going to be bad, I have a day that’s so good it can hardly be believed.

Today is a day like that. Good, I mean. Wednesday, two days ago, was one of the bad ones.

On Wednesday, I had chemo. I was only able to walk about 50 yards along the sidewalk leading from the hospital’s front door to the parking lot before I had to sit down and rest. I was nauseous on the drive home, so much so that I pulled off the road to puke. I spent the rest of the day in bed except for a few minutes I devoted to working on that day’s entry for this blog.

Yesterday was so-so. But that’s okay because it turned out to be just a transition.

Today’s been great. I woke up feeling good. No nausea. I had some energy. The drive to the VA hospital was pleasant: traffic was light, it was cool, the sun was just coming up. The crossword puzzle I brought with me was not quite impenetrable and I was called on time for my appointment.

Linda Vesley, my therapist, was, as always, wonderful and understanding. I enjoy the time I spend with her. She helps, she's funny and smart, and great company. The stuff we talked about was sobering, but the session was pleasant.

The drive home was good. The Symphony Orchestra of Ireland was on the radio playing Mozart. I didn’t have to vomit.

Now I'm up from my nap. I’m going to write a bit and I expect the writing to go well. I’ll read and enjoy what I read. There won’t be any bills in the mail or, if there are, I won’t open them. I expect to eat something unhealthy but enjoyable and then waste my time watching a movie. Lynne and I will not argue about money or anything else.

I’m not going to complain, today, or try not to, because this is one of those rare days when I feel happy to be alive.

Many people who know me well believe I’m a curmudgeon, a grouch, a cynic.

And I am, kind of. Or maybe the problem is that days like this don't come along all that often when cancer's in the picture.

Anyway, I'm going to enjoy it while it lasts.

The Bear

The chemotherapy waiting room was crowded this morning, the most crowded I’ve ever seen it. Every chair was occupied, there were three men in wheelchairs, and three more leaning against a wall in the hallway until a volunteer hauled chairs from some other room.

Later, one of the nurses explained that the lab held up some blood work which meant the pharmacy couldn’t mix the chemicals on time and then some new patients showed up. The bottom line was that the whole system was screwed up.

I bring a crossword puzzle with me every time I come to the hospital, one of the old Sunday puzzles I have in a collection put out by the New York Times. I’m usually able to keep myself occupied long enough to get through the visit without getting bored. Today was different. The puzzle was just too hard. I had to quit.

So I was sitting there looking around when I noticed a guy sitting across from me. For a moment, I couldn’t figure why he caught my attention and then I realized that he looked just like my old man, dead now for more than a decade. Really. This man looked enough like my father to be his twin, enough like my dad to give me a momentary chill.

My dad was quite a guy. I think, sometimes, of how he’d have managed cancer. He’d have faced it the same way he faced everything, with his fists cocked, ready to punch back, but enjoying the fight. We called him "The Bear" not because of his looks but, rather, because of his willingness to scrap.

That’s the way he was.

I’m adopted, so I’m not physically like my dad. He was a longshoreman, much like the working stiffs in "On the Waterfront." He had arms as big as some men’s legs and hard as tree trunks. I’m tall and skinny and a writer.

He was tough enough to start with nothing, retire at 55, travel the world with my mother, raise three sons – a doctor, a lawyer and me – and overcome two heart attacks with enough steam left over to die doing yard work.

I think he was cynical as I am. He expected trouble in his life and was rarely disappointed. But his cynicism gave him a sense of humor that can only be described as a little dark. Like mine.

Not long before my dad’s death, he and my mother were watching television when a report was aired about Pope John Paul II, who himself wasn’t in real good shape.

"It’s easy to tell he’s not married," my dad – a lifelong and reverent Catholic said.

"How that?" my mom asked.

"If he was married, his wife wouldn’t let him out of the house looking like that."

Now, that’s funny.

He also told us all to make sure we didn’t do anything extraordinary to keep him alive when he was at the end of his life. We agreed. Then he said, "But make damn sure you don’t let me go even one minute earlier than I’m supposed to go."

I remembered those two things he said while I was waiting for my chemo. I smiled. And I also gained some strength. Like my old man, I’m ready to go, but I don’t want to be early for the departure.

Fear

I went to the VA hospital again today. Nothing serious, I just had to talk to my therapist, Linda Vesley. She and I like each other. We’re friends and I’m glad she’s in my life right now. But that’s a different story.

Today was a routine visit. She always asks how I’m feeling and how I’m getting along with my wife and about work and so on. She’s not a shrink so her insights, while useful, aren’t so much about what makes me tick as what will enable me to keep ticking.

Linda didn’t feel well today. I knew that as soon as I saw her. She was nauseous and achy. In fact, we cut my visit short.

That’s okay because I often don’t know what to say. I’m not real happy but I’m also not real sad. Lynne and I are getting along and – with the help of a new drug – I’m able to write a bit. My main problem is that the Cubs are already down two games to the Dodgers in a five-game series.

Imagine that.

Wait ‘til next year, Cubs fans!

Oh, yes. I did tell her I’m feeling a bit nervous about learning the results of may last CAT scan. I’ll go to the hospital early Monday morning to see my oncologist and get the news. I’ve been having a little pain, so I’m convinced I’m not going to like what I hear. It’s been about nine months, now, since my last chemotherapy, so I figure I’m due for some bad news.

I’m not often nervous when I’m waiting for test results. Once, after blood work and a colonoscopy, I could have sworn I heard the doctor say "liver cancer." I was about half dopey from drugs, though, so I let his comment pass. Later, after the drugs wore off, the only thing I could remember about the test were those two words.

Liver.

Cancer.

Unfortunately, It was Friday evening and the doctor’s office was already closed. I was scared. I was even more scared after I started doing research on my computer and read all about liver cancer.

When the doctor showed up at his office on Monday morning, I was sitting on the ground by the front door, waiting. When I told him why I was there he looked shocked. "No," he said. "No. I told you the scan was clear and the blood work indicated no signs of liver cancer."

I get my test results in writing now.

Anyway, I’m a bit nervous about this last cat scan. I’ll concentrate on the Cubs playoff games Saturday and Sunday, if they make it that far. I’ll watch Notre Dame play Stanford on Saturday. I’ll go shopping and maybe cook a small roast on Sunday. Lynne and I will go for a drive and maybe I’ll go to church with her on Sunday. She likes when I do that, though I think God doesn’t pay much attention to me since I’m not a regular.

Then I’ll get the results Monday morning. I hope Linda, my therapist, feels better by then. Just in case, you know. Just in case I need her.

Cranky

I’m cranky right now. My nose is bleeding. I’m sitting at my computer with a wad of toilet tissue stuck up my right nostril in the hope that blood won’t get all over my penultimate, or second to last, clean tee-shirt. (I don’t wear a shirt when I’m working. Sometimes I don’t even wear pants. I work alone so it’s okay. I say that knowing it’s an image that may, if you have ever seen me, make you cranky or make your nose bleed.)

I know I’m supposed to look on the bright side. I also know a nose-bleed is not a real big deal in this world of ours. Still. I’m cranky.

Than I remember that if I really wanted to do something about my nosebleed, all I would have to do is call the veterans hospital where I get my care and a nurse or doctor would either tell me what to do or tell me to get into the emergency room.

That made me think how lucky I am. I guess I mean that even with a nosebleed and cancer I can see the bright side.

I didn’t much like being in the air force almost 50 years ago. I thought I would when I saw the television commercials showing jet aircraft screaming across the sky and happy men and women – they were on leave, I guess – standing in front of the Louvre or a pyramid. I never got to fly a jet and by the time I got to Japan, my overseas posting, I was already itching to get back to civilian life.

When I got cancer and contacted the VA, nobody ever asked me if I liked being a serviceman. I’m lucky they didn’t. Nobody asked if my cancer was somehow service related. I’m lucky there, too. I told them only service-related injury I suffered was a cracked noggin when I fell off a bar stool in Tokyo or maybe Yokohama.

Come to think of it, the people at the VA hospital didn’t ask me much at all. Instead, they told me they’d take care of me. That was good news. If my treatment depended on the level of my happiness when I was in the service, I’d be dead already.

Two courses of chemo, surgery for a blocked artery, hospitalization four times in two years, psychological help to deal with the disease, and on and on. When I say I’d be dead without the VA, I’m not overstating the case. I would be, no doubt.

All in all, it seems I got a good deal for my four not-so-happy years in uniform, even if I never did get to fly a jet.

And as I’ve been thinking about all this, and counting my blessings, my nose stopped bleeding.

The taste of a date

Years ago, I had what could be called "a bit of a problem" with alcohol. It could also be called a "big, big problem." The problem was that I wanted to drink every day and once I started drinking I just couldn’t stop. It cost me a lot over the years in terms of losses I needn’t and shouldn’t go into here. What’s important is the fact that about 13 years ago, with the help of a fellowship of sober drunks, I finally got it. I quit. And I haven’t had a drink since then.

More than once since I was diagnosed a friend or acquaintance has asked how I’ve been able not to drink in the face of this cancer.

It’s funny. The idea of drinking hasn’t even entered my mind…at least not as a serious possibility. Why on earth would I want to make the time I have left miserable? Even if misery wasn’t guaranteed, why on earth would I want to make my days muddy and distorted by alcohol?

This morning, I went to the grocery store. I go almost every morning to get something Lynne and I have decided we need. Little Debbie cakes spring immediately to mind. Or flowers. I know the experts say that’s the wrong way to shop for food. I know going shopping every day means I’ll make more impulse purchases than I should. I don’t care.

This morning when I was shopping I got a couple of pounds of coffee, on sale. I grabbed a box of generic imitation sweetener for my wife and a loaf of fresh Cuban bread. I bought some Irish butter. It’s so creamy it’s worth the extra money. After I put the butter in my cart, I walked through the produce section. In an open refrigerator display I saw little plastic boxes of strawberries, blueberries, even sliced mango and apple slices with caramel sauce for dipping.

I’ve eaten all those things. My mother used to make the best caramel apples in the world, I think. And strawberry shortcake. Suddenly, I saw a display of ripe dates. Now, I’ve never tasted a date. I don’t know why. As a consequence, in my mind dates are shrouded in mystery. Perhaps because they sound Biblical. Though dates are not mentioned by name in the Bible, I think Noah carried a couple of date palms, probably in his cabin on the Ark. He and his wife ate dates late at night while the rain fell and fell.

Anyway, this morning I decided I wanted to eat a date. I wanted to eat a date simply because I’d never eaten one before. So, with the connivance of a supermarket employee who has seen me every morning in the produce department, I did. She slipped me a date. And it was wonderful. Kind of like an apple made out of honey.

I’m glad I ate it.

If I’d been drinking, I wouldn’t have been in the grocery store. Hell, if I’d been drinking I wouldn't still be married. And I never would have the chance to taste a date.

It sounds silly doesn’t it? Tasting that date is what makes it easy for me not to end my life in a bottle.

Pain

Every time I go to the VA hospital these days I’m asked to rate my pain from one to 10, with one being no pain and ten being a lot of pain. Most days I’m not in pain, so I just say "one" and the doctor or nurse who asked nods. When I’m in pain, I’m not sure what to answer. I’m not sure because I don’t know how bad pain has to be to get a "10" rating. Since I’m not sure how bad pain can get, I can’t even guess what a "4" rating is like, or a "6" or any other degree.

About eight years ago, when I was getting post-surgery chemotherapy for my colon cancer, I was hospitalized because of a particularly nasty chemo side effect. When I went to the ER, nobody asked how much pain I was in. I guess because I was moaning and groaning too much to answer. I would have said "10" because when that pain started, I figured it couldn't get any worse. When a nurse offered me morphine I almost licked his hand like a happy and thankful puppy.

Now, though, I’m not sure if that pain was worthy of the top rating. I think not. I think there’s pain a lot worse than that. And I’m not happy about that.

I’m in pain today. Not bad. I’d give this pain of mine today about a "two" rating.

I don’t like to tell my wife when I’m in pain like this. I figure if it doesn’t register on my face, it’s not worth bothering her. It’s not bad enough for me to go to the hospital, so there’s really nothing to be done, is there? And I don’t want to worry her. I also don’t want to have to keep telling her I’m okay every time she asks.

The only reason I bring it up is because I always think this pain is a hint of what’s down the road, some kind of message to keep me from feeling too sure of myself. And it works. Most times I’m sure I can take whatever lies ahead. Yo! take your best shot, cancer! Or, as someone famously said, "Bring it on!"

But then when I get these pains it reminds me that I really don’t know what number 10 pain is like. I have a feeling it’s going to be pretty bad. And that scares me. I’m thinking of asking my wife to leave me alone when the pain gets real bad. I don’t want her to have to experience it. But I guess that’s not fair, is it?

Anyway, I’m not going to tell her I’m in pain today. She won’t go on line until tomorrow or the next day, I think. She’s got too much to do. So by the time she reads this, if she does, the pain I’m in today will have passed so we’ll be able to forget about it. At least for now.

Lookin' Good

I’m between courses of chemotherapy right now. Of course, I’m not cured. My doctor at the Veterans Administration said I needed some time to rest up and recuperate before we start again with some new poison cocktail.

He’s a funny guy, my doctor. He’s kind of like "House" on television only with a potbelly and a great laugh. He tells me it’ll be good for me to take a "drug vacation." That’s what it’s known as in the world of oncology. Besides, he said, I’ll have plenty of time to be miserable later. I have a good idea what he means, but I’m not exactly sure. And I don’t really want to know. Not yet, anyway.

Meantime, he says, I’m doing as well as can be hoped. The main tumor, the one in my right lung, shrunk about 50% during my first course of chemo. The second course of chemo didn’t shrink it but did keep it from growing. Now it’s regained some of its appetite, but it’s still only about 20% larger than it was when I was first diagnosed. The other three tumors are pretty much unchanged. There are some spots on my liver, but for now they’re tiny.

"You really look good," a friend of mine told me a few days ago. "Wow, you look pretty healthy," another friend said. My wife tells me I look handsome, but that’s kind of her job, right?

You know, though, when I look in the mirror I see that, in fact, I do look pretty healthy. My hair has grown back except for my bald spot. My mustache isn’t as thick as it was, but it’s not stringy. I’ve lost some weight but since I’ve always been thin, it’s okay. My color is good. In fact, sometimes when I step our of the shower and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I look pretty normal. Except for the chemotherapy port in my chest and the purple blotches on my hands and my arms where I’ve bumped up against a door or a wall or just brushed against something hard.

Sometimes, looking at myself, I forget my diagnosis. And that’s wonderful when it happens. But it doesn’t last. Always, without fail, I’ll think about taking a trip or writing a new book or sailing one more time down to the Keys or doing something six months from now or next year and then it hits me.

Who am I kidding?

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. I’m glad I look good, that I’m not bald, that I’m not as skinny as I will eventually be. But it’s terrible to have to question every hope I have or dream I dream or plan I make for any time more than a few days or weeks from now. It’s really terrible when my wife talks about going to St. Augustine in the fall or about where we’ll spend Christmas, to nod, to smile, to agree, and then to think, ‘we’ll see.’

Sometimes, usually when I’m not feeling so good, I blurt that out. "We’ll see, Honey," I say. "We’ll have to see, won’t we?" And what I see is the pain in her eyes, the fear, and I realize how unfair that is to her, even though it’s true.

Maybe if I looked worse, less healthy, bald and emaciated, it would be easier, on me and on her.